The Heretic
by TobyWong
Summary: Who said that breaking the rules was unpunished? Featuring Methos and Joe.
1. Chapter 1

**ONE - Her**

_London. _

_Present Day. _

Clarice Minon was sitting inertly on a bench barely hidden amid a pair of green bushes that resisted the tendency of the season and maintained their colour. All around her, trees nearly stripped of leaves and brownish yellow bushes revealed the almost complete victory of fall. On her lap rested a book she had grown tired of reading, and now she was just letting time pass.

Ahead of her, past her green shelter, a group of kids was playing soccer over the yellow rug of leaves. _Wrong word_, she thought. _Football, they call it here_. An elderly woman was feeding crumbs to a group of doves. Cold breeze blew and autumn leaves glided, swaying peacefully by its force. Naked branches danced under the wind in a slow motion illusion caused by the omnipotent daylight. Her cold pair of watchful eyes oversaw the living trying to relish their life the most.

For they would die. Sooner, or later. Perhaps the striker of one of the soccer... football teams would grow old and die of a very old age. Or maybe he would be run over by a car when leaving the park he was playing in.

But she would remain. It was something she was still unable to rationalise. She was not old. She was not 30 yet, though her face still looked like a teenager's, her blonde hair was needless of any bleach or dye, and her breasts and rear were still firm, without push-ups or any other aide. And that would not change. Not even in a thousand years. Unless, of course, her head and her body bid _adieu_ to each other.

Immortality. She was still unable to accept it, because all had happened so fast. She was an American 17-year-old schoolgirl in her uniform returning home after an ordinary day. She chose to stop by a drugstore for some cigarettes, a vice she was still unable to shake away. Meanwhile, on the opposite street, a thief had the owner of a hardware shop at gunpoint. A quirk of fate made Clarice leave the store as the thief began his runaway, while the shop owner attempted a quick shot. He hit... her.

The awakening had been difficult but she was quickly found by someone who took her in and made her life span longer than what fate demanded. A few years of bliss followed before the harsh, raw and crude immortal reality knocked at her door. Then it all began to fall apart, and it still did.

She felt a presence all around. She took her hands off her warm long coat. The right one slipped under to stroke the cold hilt of a rapier, and her fingers embraced it. She stood up, and tried to read the different signals that her mind received. Slowly, the pieces began to appear. It was a tortured soul, whoever he or she was. That immortal had been alive for too long, and she sensed grievance in the quickening, an ancient pain surely stemming from a wound ever unhealing.

Clarice began to tread through the park, feeling the presence stalking her, approaching and retreating with every step she took. Her head cocked right and left, looking around for a clear spot. A place she eventually found after a couple of minutes. She entered an almost perfect square naturally formed by lines of rebel trees that endured the demand of autumn.

She first heard it. The crunch of leaves being stepped on as a gust of wind blew her hair backwards. She grasped her weapon and drew it out as she turned, her blade colliding deafeningly with another sword, wielded by another person. It was a man, apparently no older than twenty-five. A small moustache framed his defiant grin and his brown eyes scowled harshly at her. He pushed forward and then retreated.

"I'm Clarice Minon."

"I am Pyro Artorius." The man grunted meanly.

"We don't have to do this." She softly said, lowering hardly anything her guard.

"Yes, we do." He barked before lashing at her.

Her blade deflected him off to his left and she left-elbowed his face. Heedless of the blood that was beginning to trickle down his nose, he stormed forward again. She stood her ground and dodged a vicious yet reckless chop that landed awkwardly on the floor, immediately after which she jabbed Artorius' left side. He let out a whine of dolour as his knees touched the ground.

"If I let you live, will you leave me alone?" she queried.

"You know I cannot... I must not!" he proudly replied.

"Then I'm sorry." She retired the blade from his body. He gasped painfully as he held his bleeding wound.

"Feel sorry for you, Heretic. I'm departing now, but soon you will." He hissed.

She raised her weapon and let it fall over Artorius' neck. The blade faltered upon touching it, but its path to the ground was never interrupted. She sighed, her eyes concentrated on the blood that was beginning to flow out of the headless neck of the vanquished. It was dark, dark and thick.

The wind did not blow anymore. The leaves began to soar and a small whirlwind formed around Clarice, sweeping them. Then she felt embarked by his quickening. His body began to quiver. At first slowly, then it went hectic. The corpse began to soar as a flash of light erupting from it engulfed her. She shrieked as the power of Artorius became one with hers. With it, all his emotions, and an unfathomable pain that was millennia old. Then the body landed on the floor and the quickening was over.

She fell on his knees and a split second later, her face hit the ground. Her body twittered from the shock after the quickening. Her mind was bewildered, incorporating Artorius' knowledge to hers and the one from the immortals that she had beheaded. She wanted to stand up and leave, but she couldn't. Her limbs refused to move, and her mind was storing the new memories, and also opening once again the door to the past, and to the last days of happiness as an immortal.

-----

_Santa Monica, CA._

_Summer, 1997._

Clarice treaded slowly through the promenade, holding with her arms three paper bags filled with food and other supplies necessary for the maintenance of the five mouths she had to feed. Of course, she was not alone in that endeavour. She had two valuable friends. One was her lover as well. Gregory Briggs, also her mentor.

Right after her death, at the hospital, Greg had impersonated a DO that claimed that Clarice had not been hit by a bullet, but stained by blood, and the shock made her pass. He took her out of hospital and told her that he was immortal, and so was she. She would live forever. They embarked on a five-year-tour around the world. Seven months ago, they had settled in Santa Monica and taken in a small group of homeless boys and girls.

Greg had a lovely beach house not far from the store. It had ten bedrooms and an enormous living room with a gigantic 29'' TV and a laser disc player with the latest releases. The boys loved to sit on the sofa and watch "The Lion King", "Aladdin", and other cartoons for hours. In the meantime, she and Greg had time for themselves.

She set foot on the sand and walked ten steps then halted shocked. She should have seen the cock vane of the house already. She tremulously stepped forward and the bag she dropped. The paper container bent in the air and the goods landed on the hot sand. She lost her balance and fell on her knees as tears began to trip down her cheeks.

Next to the skyline, the house was destroyed. She could see it clearly. Something had made it fall down. But what could be powerful enough? Clarice crawled towards it agitatedly and noticed something else which froze her blood. Greg... dead!

Indeed. Gregor was lying on the floor, with a sword similar to the one Mel Gibson used in "Braveheart" still clung to his left hand. To his left, silently affixed in a gesture of horror, was his head. Scorched around it was a revolting stain of blood.

She commanded herself to look away and what she found was more than she could have ever endured. Her five treasures, the five precious kids she loved as her own... they were all dead as well, scattered around like garbage. She lifted herself up and roamed towards the inert body of the tender Elle, whose rosy cheeks had been slashed from side to side. She stroked her brow and moved to the next one: the contumacious Al, who bore a sickening gash in his stomach.

She eyed the remnants of what had been her home and sadness embarked her again. Fresh tears rolled down as she saw her other three jewels trapped under the ruins. The red-haired Gael had the skull crushed by the falling roof. The other two, Ivan and Kay, the three-year-old twins, lay without life by where the door had been.

Clarice could not stand it anymore. She turned away and her guts gave in to pain. She fell on her knees and let a yellowish liquid substance containing her digested breakfast erupt from her insides. She gasped and stared at it, wishing she could drive away the despair she was feeling as easy as that. Then she felt it.

Sensations in the back of her head like a mute choir of angels. She stood up and softly tottered towards Greg's body. It was something the two of them shared: a strange feeling tinkled in their heads whenever one of them was approaching the other. But it did not come from him. It would always go away when they were close but now she was next to him and the buzzing remained.

Was there somebody else like them? The implications of what she was thinking made her forget about what had occurred and focus. Greg was dead, but they were immortals, so they could not die. He had told her to keep her immortality in secret, because people would not be able to accept it. They had not even told Marc... oh god Marcus!

She began to look around the ruins, without being able to find any other corpse. She wondered if it was something good. Perhaps Marcus, the thirty-year-old guy Harvard undergraduate that was a permanent aide had not been there that morning. Or maybe... he was under the ruins.

_Concentrate, Clarice,_ she told herself. She returned to her inner debate. Only someone who knew that they were immortals could have killed Greg. So there had to be another of them. But why? What was the purpose of killing someone? There were many possibilities: it could be a foe of Greg from the Middle Age, or maybe from the Renaissance.

She shook her head and felt the sensation once again, itching painfully through her head. She closed her eyes and tried to figure out where it was coming from. She guessed it could not be far. Clarice began to move up towards the city, knowing she would find the murderer of all that had mattered to her.

_AUTHOR's NOTE: For the first part, I used as a source the song "You Can Still Be Free", by the (unfortunately split) Australian duo Savage Garden, featured in the album "Affirmation." The first verse I adapted and included herein. Great song, if overlooked (as many others) because of the duo's commercial ballads._


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO - Him**

_The Ancient Rome. _

_45 BC._

The Legions had departed to Egypt under the command of Julius Caesar. For some it was a glorious day in which the army would reaffirm its dominion of the territory ruled by Cleopatra. Caesar's detractors, on the other hand, claimed that all that mattered to the Emperor was his physical relationship with the Queen of Egypt. The most radical of them even dared staining the good name of Mark Antony, the emperor's closest, by arguing that both men had an intercourse with the woman, and among themselves.

But none of that mattered to Pyro Artorius. There he was, cradling the ravaged body of his beloved Aretea, as sorrow corroded him. While he was farewelling the Emperor, an obligation under his position as advisor of Caesar, thieves - or maybe some political opponent to Caesar - had entered his dwelling, and raped and killed his dear wife.

He glanced up, feeling a sensation in his head. Now was a fine time for immortals to call in. At the door, a female silhouette appeared, barely visible by the increasing blinding harsh daylight, and he let out a furious shriek:

"HERETIC!"

-----

_London. _

_Present Day._

Clarice woke with a start, completely soaked in sweat, feeling how the humidity made the atmosphere unbearable. It was very warm. She worriedly looked around, only to find herself alone amid the darkness of her apartment. It had been a dream, a vision of the past life of Pyro Artorius, the immortal she had beheaded. She gazed out at the moon, so full in its white emptiness, then scratched her wet hair and took off the black nightdress she was wearing. Completely naked, she went to the shower for a bath.

-----

On the opposite street's rooftop, a man was taking photographs of Clarice, taking advantage of the latest advances in night vision lenses. He could feel under his jeans his reaction to her nudity. He wondered if he should not be used to it by now. For he had a room full of pictures of her. Sleeping, getting dressed, making love with occasional partners, walking to work and, of course, fighting immortals.

It was indeed a mad obsession. It had all began as work. He was paid a minimum for keeping an eye on an immortal. He was young when he had started. It was shortly after the soccer World Cup took place in the States, and after witnessing two immortal women in a battle. The watcher - for that was his job - of the woman who lost knocked him down and next thing he knew was the eternal secret of the existence of immortals. The man faced him with a choice: he could live and join the group of watchers, or he could die.

Clarice Minon had been her second assignment. The first one was a British guy who lost his head in France. He had never been to Europe and he found it mesmerising. Then they told him he would have to watch her. And he had done so, relishing every second of gawking into the intimacy of such a beautiful woman.

But somewhere in the way he fell in love with her. And suddenly the oath he had made against ever revealing the organisation he worked for, or contacting the very immortal he was supposed to only watch, meant squat to him. Like the position in IBM he had turned down upon his return to the States, which the Watchers had allowed him to take.

Instead, he had called in at the residence she shared with Gregory Briggs, in response to a newspaper advertisement requesting someone who could help them with the young kids they had taken under their wing. He claimed he wanted to do something away from the computer world, and that doing it for free would make him feel fine. Actually, he felt fine only by seeing her close.

They got along, and though he wanted Briggs out of the way - not dead though, merely out -, he knew that it would kill her. Until the dreaded day in 1997, everything was OK. That day, he followed Clarice carefully to the shop and back, and ghastly watched the aftermath of the massacre occurred that day. The five kids, which he liked a lot, dead, just like Briggs. He never dared appearing before her again...

Marcus Lecter passed a hand over his growing brow to wipe out the sweat that was tripping down. He was not young anymore. He was close to his forties and the mat of red hair he had once had was gone, replaced by an almost totally barren head, in which only a small mat of orange and white bristles remained. His wife had dumped him five years ago for believing Clarice was his lover, after having found some pictures of his assignment. In hindsight, it was better that way. He had never let her into the secret of his true employment, and his spouse still believed he worked for a computer company.

On the opposite street, Clarice was returning to bed, without any clothes and with her blonde curls and slender body wetted. Marc shook his head and started taking photographs again, wishing he had the chance to join her. He wouldn't have it. Not now, and maybe never... but he doubted she had a lot of time ahead of her.

Clarice had got herself into heavy stuff, the sort of stuff that goes beyond anything permitted. There was only one other immortal that had dared do something so outrageous, and that eternal person had been beheaded soon after. And only the Lord - or Satan maybe - knew the full consequences of it. He had cried and wept like a child when he saw her commit the wrongful act, foreseeing a coming apocalypse. But he was still there, and so was she.

He glanced at his trusty cellphone, the same one he had owned since he joined the organisation. After that day, that dreaded Rubicon he could not forget, he had phoned Joe for help, hoping to find relief there, but he only conveyed his panic to the other...

-----

_Paris, France._

_Winter, 1997._

"Yeah?"

Joseph Dawson had been playing his electric guitar. He was not trying B.B. King, or Clapton, not even the late Byron. He was merely jamming, improvising, something that helped him shake off the cold. The bar was empty and the phone had startled him, echoing ghostly under the notes.

"Joe? This is Marc Lecter."

"Hey Marc! How's it going?"

Marc was a fine chap. He had met him a couple of years ago. Joe was watching his assignment, Duncan MacLeod. Lecter was watching his. Unfortunately, Marc's immie lost a battle. Now he was watching Clarice Minon, a very interesting jewel for what Joe could tell.

"Going. How're you and your buddy MacLeod?"

Everybody knew now that Joe and Duncan were friends. The fact that Joe had broken his oath had cost him dearly, but there had been many others who had unfulfilled their word in most terrible ways, so he managed to remain in the organisation.

"I don't know. He's been out of sight for quite a while..." Joe halted, feeling pain upon the evocation of the reason MacLeod had vanished.

"I read your report on Ryan's death... is all that Zoroastrian theory true?"

A cold shiver ran through Joe's back. He glanced at the door and for a second, everything seemed to turn red. He closed his eyes and blanked his mind. Then he opened them and focused on a bottle of gin near him.

"I don't know..." he whispered. "How can I help you?"

"I screwed up, Joe."

Marc sounded worried. _Okay_, Joe thought. _What could have happened?_

"What did you do, buddy?"

"I got in touch... with Clarice."

Joe grinned, glancing up at the rooftop in relief. Many a thought had ran through his head while trying to guess what had occurred. He remembered when he had been told to give Marc his new assignment. The kid had gazed at the picture and whistled cheerfully in recognition of her beauty and left the bar in a happy mood, unlike the gloominess he had brought with him upon the death of his other assignment.

"It's nothing I haven't done, and you know it. Just don't go to the extreme of helping her corner other immortals."

Joe allowed himself to grin. _Do what I say but not what I do_. He had helped Duncan MacLeod and even the late Richie Ryan find another immortals. But it had been due to special circumstances.

"No. I'd been helping her and Briggs with the kids."

Marcus sounded concerned. Joe was worried. And why did he say _I'd been_ and not _I've been_?

"Okay. Tell me what happened." He demanded.

"I followed her to the market and when she returned... their house was fallen down... the kids were dead... and..." his words came out hurriedly, almost as if he were choking.

"Calm down. Did she die?" Joe articulated every syllable stiffly.

"No... but I wish she were..." Marc's voice cracked and Joe could hear the pain,

"Marc... you're scaring the shit out of me."

"I'm fucking scared, Joe. If what the records say it's true, then..." Marc silenced to give way to sobs that shattered Joe's composure.

"Marc!" he bellowed. "What happened?"

And the rant began...


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE - Heresy**

_London. _

_Present Day._

The black and green screen read:

_IMMORTAL: Pyro Artorius._

_BORN: 125 B.C._

_PLACE OF BIRTH: Rome._

_FIRST DEATH: 96 B.C._

_MENTOR: Juan Sanchez Villalobos Ramirez (Tak-Ne)._

_CONFIRMED IMMORTAL KILLS: 203._

_STATUS: Dead._

"Now let me add it to your record," an elder lady in her mid fifties whispered softly as she typed something on the computer keyboard and the information changed.

_IMMORTAL: Clarice Minon_

_BORN: 1977 AD_

_PLACE OF BIRTH: Massachussets, USA._

_FIRST DEATH: 1992 AD_

_MENTOR: Gregory Briggs._

_CONFIRMED IMMORTAL KILLS: 24.  
STATUS: Alive._

The woman hit the keys quickly and the 24 changed to a 25.

"That's it, Marc."

Behind her, Marcus Lecter was sitting with embarrassment at the library the Central Headquarters of the Watchers had in the main floor of the old mansion where it was established.

"I'm sorry, Diana."

The lady smiled wryly. "For what? It was your immortal who killed mine. What could you have done? Interfere?"

"Even so..." he looked away.

"I watched Artorius for twenty years. It's a long time. With any luck, I'll get an immortal living in holy ground so I'll have time for myself." She stood up. "Good to see you, Marc."

"Sure." He shook his head as she left. She was right. It was Clarice who had killed Artorius, but he still felt bad for Diana. She had lost someone whom she had watched for twenty years. It was a long time, and losing someone after such a period surely hurt, even if you were not personally close to the decedent.

On her way out, she came across a thin slender man who delivered a quick farewell kiss on her cheek before she left. He was holding under his left hand a couple of books – nothing compared to the huge amount stored in the shelves at the walls. Marc scrutinised him as the man approached with his right hand extended. He jerked his arm forward, shook it and let it go.

"So, how's it going with the lovely Clarice?" the man asked as he sat down and opened an ancient book that Marc took to be a millennia-old chronicle.

"You know how. Immortals coming for her head. She's ceased running, and now she's fighting them... and winning." Marc shrugged uneasily.

"So I heard. They are all ancient immortals, right?" the man queried as his eyes shrunk before opening wide in surprise.

"Yeah, why?"

"There're a couple of unrecognised immortals on the field, taking down experienced ones."

"So?" The other showed him a page written in an ancient, impossible to understand language.

"This is the tale of Logozz." The man motioned him to take a seat. "Logozz was a ruler in Egypt, before the times of the Pharaohs. It was said that he was able to dodge death, and that he died many times." Marc set his eyes on a sketched portrait of that person. "This matches the picture from the report."

"You're saying that this... Logozz..." Marc spoke nervously "... is an old immortal that has resurfaced... so?"

"The tales date back to a long time... 6000 years at least."

Marc did not notice when his jaw fell until he felt the cold in his vocal chords. He breathed out and massaged the sides of his head, rationalising the implications of what the other had just said.

"Older than Methos... "

"I always wondered what happened really." The other stared at Marc, for a second accusatorily, then fondly. "I mean, I dare say you omitted some things from your report."

"You really want to know?" Marc felt his hands were suddenly wet, and a cold chill ran down his back. The other nodded with a buddy smile. "Until she left the place of the slaughter, all is true, then..."

-----

_Santa Monica, CA._

_Summer, 1997._

Carlos Dini was kneeling before the altar in silent prayer. No one was there. The priest had delivered his morning mass and left. He would have attended it but he had to attend a matter that was older, much older than Christianity itself. He had found this church rather small. It was not really so, but it was nothing compared to the grand church at the Vatican.

He heard the echoing footsteps unsteadily climbing up the stairs and felt the presence that had been nagging him for some minutes now approaching really close. It was probably Briggs' apprentice. His former friend had a tendency to constantly get new students. It had been so since the fourteenth century. A long time ago.

Now there was silence. He heard the presence approaching him more and more and sitting on the first bench to the right. He stood up, blasphemously grasping the altar as an aide, while he put up his left and then his right leg.

He turned. Before him there appeared a blonde woman, really beautiful and young. Her eyes were purple and her face evidenced the tears she had shed. There was blood in her hands. It was surely the blood of those little children that had tried to defend Briggs, and which he had been forced to kill.

She was glowering at him, but not with hatred. What he saw in her eyes was something akin to scepticism, mixed with a certain uncertainty. He approached to the bench to the left and sat down.

"Who are you, small butterfly?"

"My name..." she sounded emotionally destroyed "... is... Clarice Minon."

Indeed she was a _minon_, Carlos thought. This woman did not seem to be very acquainted with what was going on.

"Do you know... what we are?"

"Immortals... or so said Greg..." her voice levelled a bit. "Did you kill him?"

"I did." He spoke solemnly. "We were friends once, you know? But then he tried to get in my way and friendship died. He was a fine warrior."

"Did you also...?" She hid her face in her hands.

"They got in my way too." Now Carlos sounded detached.

Clarice glared at him, feeling a surge of despise and rage boiling up inside of her. She clenched her fists and pounded against her lap.

"You son of a bitch!" she cursed, not even thinking of the fact that she was in a church.

"If you want, we can settle this. This church is rather isolated from the city so we can battle outside. I have a spare sword."

Battle? What could this man have in his mind that he was so eager to fight? And why? All those questions faded away when he opened his brown leather coat and offered a shiny weapon with a curved blade. Something within her impelled her to reach out for it and grasp it before she could even think about it. Next she was stepping out of the church and testing the weapon, lashing to the air as Greg had taught her.

He eyed at her opponent, who drew out a thick sword that reminded her of the film "_The Swordsman_". Suddenly he struck, chopping at her fiercely. She did not notice how or when she dodged him; she only found herself away from him. He shook his head and went forward again. He sent a thrust intended at her groin but a momentum of some kind led her armed hand to parry and make a deep gash across the stomach of the experienced warrior.

Carlos fell on his knees, cradling his out-coming intestines while he let out a hiss that masked his pain. Clarice regarded him blankly, unable to explain how she had performed those movements. Greg had taught them to her, arguing that he wanted her to learn "so that they share something else". But never had she been even close to master them. Now she had the slayer of all that had mattered to her at his knees. What should she do?

Inadvertently, Carlos' wound seemed to heal, for he scrambled to his feet and began to run towards the church. Clarice noticed, and that act of cowardice - escaping - made her really angry. She stormed after him. He dove through the entrance of the church and landed hardly on the floor. She walked in as a steam train and kicked him hard. He squirmed in pain.

The wound would not kill him as it would not kill her. But she wanted to kill him. Despair and rage fuelled her to. The boys had died. Greg had died... maybe...

Clarice rose up her sword. Carlos opened wide his eyes and shook his head. His mouth opened to form a circle when she let the weapon fall and the whistle of the air being cut precluded the farewell of his head to his body. She saw the blood beginning to scatter and she dropped the sword, regaining composure and realising of the murderous atrocity she had just committed.

To her horror, the body started to shine out a yellow light. Suddenly, it began to levitate. She felt a certain something in the atmosphere that gave her the creeps. She felt her hair being charged by a strange force and raised. Then the light began to flicker and darken. Now it was black. And it dragged her towards it as it became harsher and more dazzlingly.

Clarice was overwhelmed by a sensation she could neither describe nor think about. It was pleasant, but at the same time concomitant with pain. It was like an orgasm, if not in the least similar, but multiplied tenfold. She felt that somehow she now knew more things, including what was going on.

The Game. Immortals take heads to receive the Quickening of their opponents, their power, knowledge and in limited cases, special skills. In the end, there can be only one. There were rules to abide by... and Clarice had just broken probably the most important of them all...

-----

_Cairo, Egypt. _

_1997._

A hidden tomb, dug deep within a pyramid, protected by many secret passageways and traps. Inside it, many treasures awaited the ventured soul that would dare go for them. In the centre, a sarcophagus, with the face of a jackal on its lid, covered with dust, was placed, to provide whoever was inside it a proper resting place for eternity... until now.

The lid whined as it was pushed open. Bony fingers, with inches-long fingernails, slid from inside and removed it completely. A mummy rose from it and began to remove his bandages slowly, as he stuck a hand inside the coffin and drew out a magnificent if dusty sword...

-----

_London. _

_Present Day._

"If this Logozz is after Clarice, she's dead!" Marc complained.

"She's been dead since she took that head on holy ground." The other replied, seemingly calm. "The Grim Reaper's been sparing her life so far."

"But... no one went after Jacob Kell!" Marc protested.

"Kell absorbed a multiple quickening on holy ground. That should have made him unstoppable..."

"I know." Marc barely nodded. "Connor MacLeod had to give in his head so that Duncan MacLeod could defeat Kell. But still..."

"Kell died two weeks after attacking the sanctuary. Clarice has been stalked for... four years?"

"Five."

"She's been lucky." The other replied stiffly. "Now, if Clarice could count on the Highlander, she might have a chance against Logozz."

"Where is he?"

"Who knows? He's vanished. But remember we can't interfere."

The man dug his nose in the book. Marc rose, patted the other's back and left very concerned. From his seat, the man watched him leave. The young Lecter had reasons to be worried. Clarice Minon had taken a head on holy ground. Unbeknownst to Marc, that pulled the most ancient immortals, either those alive or those dwelling as quickenings inside others, against her.

Only the legendary Methos could resist the pull and help her to stay alive. There was a reason for that immunity, Adam Pierson thought as he closed the book, and it led him not to want to become involved. However, he knew he did not have a choice.

_AUTHOR's NOTE: The word "minon" derives from the word "mina", which is used in my country to refer to a woman (I think the closest equivalent is "chick"). "Minon" is used to refer to a very attractive woman. It's colloquial, and mostly used by men. "The Swordsman" is a film with Lorenzo Lamas._


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR - Help**

_London. _

_Present Day._

Clarice shivered as she shook her palms together. Autumn annoyed her. For one day it was warm and unbearable, and the next was cold and windy. Like that night, with the first advances of winter mercilessly making her quiver. Not even the thick wool sweater she was wearing under the ever-present long warm coat saved her from it. And she had ran out of cigarettes. The bench she was sitting on was stone cold, and the Tube was taking a lot to make it to the station.

There was no one else on the station, neither on this side or the other. The train she was expecting was the last of the day, and she had to fetch it in order to avoid forking out a taxi. Her savings had been done a couple of years before and her current job, as a hotel clerk, did not pay enough for her to afford a long trip in a cab.

She heard the distant whine of the metal wheels whirring against the rails, approaching the station. Surreptitiously, she felt something else. She stood up and slowly paced towards the edge, as the wagons came out of the tunnel. The subway decreased its march. Clarice examined the passing faces, hoping not to spot there the immortal she had sensed.

The doors opened and two passengers - an elder priest and a teenager made up in the new romantic fashion - got off. She walked in and plopped into a seat. The doors closed and the train started moving. She sighed in relief, glad of having escaped an encounter. Then she suddenly stood up, sensing she was wrong. There was somebody there.

The feeling came from her left, and it was moving towards her. She rose and drew out her rapier, lashing out to the air to warm her muscles. Then he appeared. A tall, well-built man, with long black hair, darkened skin and a glowering pair of black eyes. Clarice shivered upon his looks.

He smirked viciously and produced a large broadsword from under a beige mackintosh that seemed too small for him. The hilt of the weapon seemed to have a design akin to that of the Egyptian sphinxes, sculpted in golden metal, if not gold itself.

"Heretic..." he hissed.

Clarice spread her legs and bent her knees slightly, as she stood in profile and raised the sword above her head. The other gave a calm step, then another, before rushing towards her. His first blow was a chop that missed her. She took distance, always on guard. He thrust at her neck. She opposed her blade, but his strength was such that she found herself pushed against the floor, struggling to keep her balance while containing the violent attack.

The other began to guffaw. She felt weak against him. Never had she faced such a strong opponent. His blade began to overcome hers, and the tip of it grazed her throat. A minute cut cleared the way for a small amount of blood that started to ooze out. The man lifted up his blade and made it fall again harder on her. She fell on her knees, still blocking.

An inaudible sound made Clarice fear beyond her senses. She fixed her eyes on the waging blade she owned, and saw how a disturbing crack in it grew bigger. _Not now_, she prayed silently. He put up the blade and chopped down fiercely yet again. Her rapier broke and his sharp weapon slashed her shoulder and left breast. She squawked as she instinctively dove away from him.

"Damn!" she cried, tossing the useless weapon and holding her wound.

The train started to slow down. That meant that it was close to the station. She might have a chance to get away, provided always she could distract her opponent for a time enough for her to do it.

"Who are you?" she queried in a painful hiss.

"I'm Logozz."

Logozz. Only that? What sort of name was that? Probably one of a very old immortal, in the days before memory, when surnames were still unnecessary.

"Why... are you after me?" she gasped, feeling how the wound stopped its bleeding.

"You have broken the Rule!" he bellowed preternaturally. She could sense a purpose in him, something she had never sensed in the other immortals.

"The Rule? But there's more than one Rule." She tried to argue.

"There is only one Rule." Logozz uttered.

The train entered the station. It braked and the doors opened. Clarice slowly walked off, being followed by the other. She studied him, trying to find anything that might help her. But she could not. This Logozz would not spare her head, not even if she were to offer herself, Maria Sharapova and all the other models from the _Sports Illustrated_ calendar as his sex slaves for eternity.

The loud bang disturbed her as she felt something thin blowing past her ear towards him. Logozz shrieked while he held desperately his chest. Traces of blood started to appear through his coat. She turned, and noticed a man waving at her. He was tall, and had red and white hair. He resembled an aged version of Marc... but Marc was dead, wasn't he?

"Clarice, move!" he bellowed. He also sounded like Marc. Realisation dawned on her. She had never found Marcus' body. She had simply taken him for dead. But what in hell was he doing there? Now that he was by her, there was no doubt. It was Marc. "Move... he will wake up soon."

"Where?" she asked as she began to run.

"Anywhere but here..." he said as they ran up the stairs and emerged into the chilly streets of London.

They ran for two streets until Marc halted her by a public phone. He inserted a coin and dialled a number. She stared fondly at him while he waited for the call to connect, checking that Logozz did not show up.

"Adam? It's Marc... Deep st... Yes, it's Logozz... what did you want me to do? Let him kill her?... Three streets from Trafalgar Square... We need your help... Please..."

Marc hung up and shook his head. He glanced at her and looked away.

"Who were you talking to?" she asked.

"A friend. He's done some research on this guy Logozz. He might help us."

"You know...?"

"Yes. I know you are immortal. You've taken a head on holy ground and many immortals want your head." Marc stroked his head, feeling emotional distress.

"Where were you all this time?"

"I..." Marc stammered, deliberating whether to talk or not.

The whirr of a van startled them. Clarice eyed suspiciously at a black van that had parked nearby. She glared at Marcus, who seemed calm. Why? A thin man got off. Clarice did not know him. Whoever that immortal was, he was surely the friend that could help them.

"I'm Clarice Minon." She introduced herself when the man came close enough.

"Adam Pierson..." the other replied with a nod.

Marc observed suspiciously the scene. Pierson had always been too good with ancient languages for someone his age. Extremely good and, as a matter of fact, far better than anyone with a lifetime of study and analysis. Remarkable, but impossible for a mortal. Only now he gave it a thought, that Clarice introduced herself as she did when meeting another of her kind.

"Adam... you are immortal!" he snapped.

"I'm, Marc. Just don't spill the beans." The reply was calm, but his eyes gave away the concern. "Where is he?"

"I shot him. It should take a while for him to wake up."

"You don't know him." Adam mumbled as he motioned towards the van and glanced in the direction of the subway.

"And you do?" The mortal queried as he opened the passenger door of the van and climbed in.

Adam was about to get inside the car when Clarice grabbed his shoulder. He turned, finding an inquisitorial pair of eyes demanding answers. He shrugged, and then sensed the presence of Logozz, angrily erupting out of the Tube into the street. His sight posed on Clarice, whose stiff expression had morphed into something akin to fear. She silently pleaded for him, about something he could not know.

"My sword is broken... I can't fight him." She finally hissed.

"It won't make much of a difference." Adam replied. His eyes went past her to study the appearing shape of Logozz, now dressed in trims fit for the twenty-first century. A stirring feeling of nostalgia gripped him for an instant, evoking the very old days.

"Damn!" Clarice swore spotting her hunter.

"Come on!" Marc cried from the car. "We have to leave!"

Clarice and Adam did as told. They rushed to the vehicle, and he sat behind the wheel, while she dived into the backseat. The car, though, refused to start. Now Logozz' face was visible. His hard face had changed. Now he seemed calm, and not in the least anxious to attack. He stopped a few metres away from the van.

"What the f happens with him?" she snapped.

Logozz stretched his lips, and a broad grin posed on his face. She realised that quizzical gesture was not aimed at him. She glanced at the man she had just met, who was finally getting the car to work as he coldly fixed his eyes on the hunter.

"Move, Adam!" Marc bellowed.

Adam turned on the car and drove towards Logozz at a reasonable speed according to the circumstances. The Egyptian made a reverence at first, but then surprised when the van ran him over. He managed though to let out a one-word shriek, a word that Adam did not notice, but Clarice and Marc did.

"Death!"

-----

Daylight sneaked in through the closed shutters and rested on Clarice's closed eyes. She first opened her left eye, then the right one, and her mouth opened to yawn as her lids moved up and down repetitively. After thirty seconds or so of blinking, she rose from the bed and wearing only her underwear, went to the toilet adjacent, if within the same private space, to the bedroom.

She stared at her reflection. There she was. Clarice Minon, the immortal who had taken a head on holy ground and had a bunch of fanatics after her. And the blame could only be pinned on Gregory Briggs. But she felt she couldn't blame him. Not now that he was dead. Not ever. Even if he had not told her what immortality truly consisted in, her love for him - even in death - spared him her conviction.

She washed her face, returned to the bedroom, opened a drawer and found an array of feminine clothes. She changed her underwear, put on a new pair of jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt. As she walked out of the bedroom Pierson had allocated her in, she wondered why he had woman clothes in his bedroom... would he be a drag? He found a large alley, flanked by the walls and at least other eleven bedroom doors. At the end of it, she recognised the stairs she had numbly walked up the night before, bewildered after having been closer to definite death than ever.

Clarice went downstairs and found a large door-window open. Her still-asleep mind awoke upon the ordinary feeling of an immortal around. She walked out to a balcony from which a large space beautifully covered with yellow leaves, furnished here and there by naked trees, could be seen. Leaning against the rail, sipping something in a cup, Adam Pierson was eyeing blankly at the scenario ahead of him.

"Good morning, Clarice." He said charmingly without turning.

"How did you know it was me?" She joined him at the rail. "It could have been any other of us."

"Not really." Adam sipped a bit more. "Your quickening emits a different kind of signal. It's... hard to describe... but it's peculiarly unique."

"Oh..." she shrugged. "Where's Marc?"

"I sent him to do some shopping. There's a bakery that makes some nice _croissants._ Expensive, but they are worth it."

"He didn't know you're immortal... but he knew about me and Logozz..." Clarice shivered due to the cold, so she stole the cup from Pierson's hand and drank. It seemed like tea, but it was something different... and awful.

"It's a special drink that was prepared in the Mesopotamia three thousand years ago. It was said that it could help you relax." Adam grinned as he took his drink back.

"So you're that old?" she taunted before waving at Marc, who was returning with a bag of things in his hand. A cold sweat ran through Clarice, remembering what had happened the last time she had gone for groceries for somebody else.

"That Frenchman is a thief!" Marc grunted, having in a rush climbed up the stairs and walked in.

"They are worth it, my friend." Adam grabbed the bag and went inside, followed by the others. "Besides, if you want them cheap, take the train and go to France." Adam stuck his hand and a large _croissant_ came out with it, finding its dwelling place in the host's mouth.

"With that guy behind us, you eat croissants?" Marc groaned.

"You won't be able to stay alive if you die of starvation, will you? Remember you're not like us."

"You haven't answered my question." Clarice complained. "And... what's with you and Logozz? He knew you."

"And that thing he shrieked..." Marc added.

"Death." Clarice let the word in a rush. Adam finished his drink and sat at the table, extending his hands in an evident motion to join. She took the head, Adam at her left, and Marc at his left.

"I've had many names over the millennia. My real name is not important, but you may keep on calling me Adam Pierson. I'm more than five thousand years old."

"Damn bastard!" Marc snapped. "It's so damn obvious."

"What?" Clarice questioned.

"He's Methos."

The words fell like a hammer on Clarice. Methos, the legendary immortal said to be the oldest of them all. But if that was the case, if Pierson was Methos, and if the old immortals wanted her head, then why was he helping them? But first was something else.

"What... how do you know about immortals, Marc?"

The mortal looked away, scratched the few hairs he had and returned his eyes to Clarice. He glanced at Adam, who nodded with some resignation.

"I belong to an organisation called the Watchers. We've recorded the activities of immortals for a long time, never interfering with their lives... I was your watcher..." Marc's hand balled into a fist.

Clarice rationalised what he had said. She stood up, and abruptly went up to him and punched him in the face. Marc fell down and she jumped over him, hitting him with her hands. Adam grabbed her away as Marc remained on the floor.

"You son of a b! You could have helped Greg... you could have let me know!" she shrieked.

"Clarice..." Adam tried to calm her down, but she was hysterical, weeping disconsolately as she breathed heavily. He slapped her in the face. "Clarice!"

She touched where he had hit her and sat down again, shying away from the others into her folded arms, before beginning to cry again. Adam helped Marcus up, and he sat down too, feeling bad for her, and miserably guilty.

"I joined the watchers to find a way to keep track of some, and to remain away from other immortals." Adam continued, hoping the mood would improve something.

"The Horsemen." Marc gasped lowly, insisting. "Kronos, Silas and Caspian... Famine, War and Pestilence. Silas was reportedly defeated by an unknown immortal... the fourth horseman was never found." He grinned. "You are him... Death."

Clarice raised her head upon that. There was indeed something going on that she had no clue of.

"How do you know Logozz?"

Adam found himself cornered. He knew he had to speak if he wanted to keep the couple with him and alive, rather than away and at the mercy of Logozz. For he dared not think what might happen if Logozz took Clarice's head. If the legends were true, and so far they had been, then...

"Fine... well, the story starts about five thousand years ago..."


	5. Chapter 5

FIVE -

_Somewhere lost to memory. Circa 3000 BC._

Under the scorching heat, Methos the errant glanced sideways with what little energy he had left. His eyes ached, and his utmost exertion he needed merely to remain stood. He leant on his camel, which had suffered as much as him the days in the desert. Maybe it had endured more. The animal carried some vessels and pottery Methos had stumbled on. He hoped to trade it for food at the market he was now standing at.

He almost fell on his knees when he sensed it. The feeling. That sensation in the back of his head, announcing that one of his kind was around. Now that he was exhausted and unarmed, for his sword had been sold to buy the camel that now stood by him. He envisioned his soon-to-occur death as he felt that immortal approaching from somewhere.

A bowl of water appeared before him, clung to a dark hand, which continued in an arm, and in the body of a bearded man whose head was covered by a turban. He eyed at him blankly before taking the water, which he drunk eagerly, but not so much. He remembered his means of transport, and held the bowl for the camel. The animal licked the water gratefully.

The stranger motioned at him to follow to a peculiar, quaint, small residence not far from there. Methos did so and tied his camel at a post before walking in. Another bowl of water awaited him. He rushed to it and drank greedily, as his host moved outside to give some water to Methos' animal.

"Thank you." He uttered when the stranger returned. Then he realised he was talking to an immortal. "I don't have a sword..."

"I can lend you one if you want to fight... or we can talk. Would you like something to eat?"

Before Methos could reply, the stranger produced a pot with bird meat. Methos stared at it as if it were a deity, but restrained his instincts to jump over his meal, fuelled by the guilt of having been unfriendly to his host.

"I'm Methos."

"I'm Samir Al-Kashaba." The other replied calmly. "Won't you eat?"

Methos grasped the food and bit it. It tasted deliciously, though he wondered if he would have thought the same had it been camel waste. He felt his energies returning and with it, a disturbing suspicion. Was this immortal luring him in order to behead him when he was distracted? The answer came a second later: if that was the case, why feeding him? He was weak enough to be beheaded without problems.

"Thank you."

"May I ask you a question?" Samir queried. "I don't have the chance to talk much with others of our kind."

"What do you want to know?" Methos spoke with his mouth staffed with meat.

"What do you know about immortality? Are you familiar with what it entails?"

Methos swallowed and started chanting. "We cannot grow old. We cannot die until our heads are severed. We must fight until only one remains. In the end, there can be only one. But there are rules: only one immortal can challenge another. No heads can be taken on holy ground..."

He was interrupted by something that puzzled him.

"And what if you break the rules?"

Methos felt disturbed. His mentor, Anji, had lectured him endlessly about the rules, but never had he even hinted something like that.

"I don't know..." he gasped.

"I do."

Methos stared with disbelief at this immortal calmly confessing that he had committed such outrageousness. The rules had to be obeyed, or... or what? The answer was unknown, and still, no one was known to have ever broken them... until now.

Samir continued. "Did you see the old beggar at the market?" Methos hadn't, but nodded anyway. "She's the last of thirty generations, the first of which I saw born. And I was some millennia old already."

"Why you did it?"

"When you grow as old as I do, life starts to lose its essence. You stop feeling. I wanted to experience something new... so I took a head on holy ground."

"And..." Methos was not certain he wanted the answer.

"Nothing. If my limbs had burnt to ashes, I would have accepted it. If I had been dragged into the darkness for an eternity of pain, I would have accepted it, but... nothing happened."

"So I can take a head on holy ground and..."

"I meant that nothing beyond our understanding, something as mysterious as our origins, happened. But something _will_ happen. Not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but some day, from a faraway land, two outlanders, two of us, will come for my head."

Methos felt the meat was stuck in his throat. He couldn't swallow. He was stunned at seeing how this man talked so simply of his coming death.

"I'm sorry." he finally said, meaning it.

"I'm not. Your presence here has a purpose. Let me train you, Methos. I implore you. Allow me to bequeath you what I've learnt."

Methos felt overwhelmed by the emotion this man he had just met spoke with. The idea of being trained by a very seasoned immortal was tempting.

"I accept."

-----

_London. Present day._

The doorbell interrupted the tale. Methos rose from his seat and went to the door. Clarice heard a cordial, if cut-off, greeting to someone. She glanced at a man with grey beard and hair, slowly walking towards them aided by a stick. He patted Marc's shoulder and offered his hand to her.

"Joe Dawson."

"Clarice Minon." she shook it.

"I know." Joe answered as he sat down. "Everybody's favourite immortal."

"Any news?" Marc asked.

"Our buddy Logozz is on a beheading spree, looking for her. He's taken mostly newbies, but some experienced ones have fallen too. Clarice, you stand no chance against him." Joe smirked. "He's older than..." he halted, remembering that there was a secret to be kept.

"Him." Marc pointed at Methos. Joe seemed to relax, now knowing that there were no secrets within the group - none that he knew of at least.

"Do you have any immortal friend that might help you?" Joe queried.

"Only one... Colin MacLeod... but I haven't seen him in five years."

"Clan stuff. Duncan's the same. He's been missing for some time now."

"We're alone." Methos voiced the implied conclusion.

"We can't stay here. He'll come eventually."

"New York." Marc suggested. "Crowded as hell."

"I don't think so. New York is also crammed with immortals. Plus, remember there were some episodes involving beheadings in the last twenty years, so the cops might be alert.. And let's not..."

"Bla bla bla." Methos joked." We get the point, Joe. What about Buenos Aires?"

"There are few of your kind there, and they're mostly tourists. How's your Spanish?" Joe replied.

"Good."

"Then you book the tickets, and you pay."

Methos grinned in mock contempt and moved to the phone. Marc and Joe started chatting about their personal businesses. Clarice eased away towards the window for a breath of fresh air, gripped by a feeling akin to despair yet closely similar to fear. Al-Kashaba's words - as narrated by Methos - echoed in her mind...

"_...two outlanders, two of us, will come for my head._"


	6. Chapter 6

SIX – The Second Outlander 

_Buenos Aires_. _Two days later_.

Calmly sitting at a cafe inside _Aeroparque_, one of the airports in the City of Buenos Aires, Kenjiro Iwata was having a cup of tea, hoping it would help him keep the complaints of his intestines at bay. After more than 36 hours of flying, the jetlag - and the concomitant gutlag - forced him to use all his will not to squirm in his seat.

After 45 years, the last 20 spent as an immortal, he had travelled a lot for work. But he was still unable to put up with the discomforts long-distance travel brought with it. However, something made his attention shift from his belly to something else.

It was a strange feeling. There was someone around he could sense. But someone was with that immortal, someone who emitted a sensation that was appalling, awful. Kenjiro grasped his handbag and carefully opened it. A black katana in its sheath he produced, and hid it under his long coat. He stood up and started to glance around, wondering why he was not passing from this encounter...

-----

Clarice, Joe, Marc and Methos were in the airport lobby, with their bags ready to leave. Then the two immortals had sensed someone around and they had halted. The four of them started to look around without moving for a face they might know.

"Japanese guy right ahead of us." Clarice spoke.

Marc glanced and cursed. "Kenjiro Iwata."

"Iwata? He's barely fifty. So he can't be coming after her." Methos replied.

"He recently took the head of Cassius Polonius."

"Shit." Methos stepped forward to meet the Japanese, who was now by them. "Hello, Kenjiro."

"I don't know you, and I don't know how you know me. I don't have anything against you, so please let her and me handle this." Kenjiro barked.

"May I advise you against it? She's tough."

"Hello! I'm here." Clarice interrupted, facing the Asian. She took a good glance of him. Slim and shorthaired like most Asians, Iwata wore a cheap if expensive-looking black suit with no tie. Underneath the black coat, she made out the hilt of a katana. "You really want to fight me?"

"I do, Heretic!" Kenjiro replied, not figuring out why he had called her that.

"The underground parking lot." She said, heading to the stairs not far from there. "Now."

Methos watched submissively as the woman and the Asian headed downstairs. Then he glanced at Joe and Marc, who were silently imploring for assurance. He mentioned something to them before following the other immortals.

-----

Sword lashes echoed preternaturally in the empty lot. Hidden behind a car, Laszlo Kovac kept his camera recording the battle between his immortal and Clarice Minon. This woman was said to get in trouble with many old immortals, yet he couldn't know why Kenjiro was so eager to go after her. There was no record of any personal matter between them.

Laszlo only felt a pair of hands before a surge of pain in his throat and the sound of his own neck being snapped let him know that he was dead...

-----

Iwata was good. He had a good array of movements and evidently some martial arts knowledge as well. But Clarice managed. As she always did against her opponents. The Asian struck with a downward chop, which she swiftly avoided, taking the chance to strike on his left flank, gashing his side.

He grasped his wound as he kept his weapon up, should she attack again. But she waited until he was up again and ready to continue. Wielding his katana with his right hand, he placed it by his left leg, and stood in profile. Clarice remembered that position from a movie, but she couldn't be certain which.

Then he leapt forward, whipping at her chest viciously. She instinctively put up her blade and parried his blow. Iwata looked defeated. She could see it in his eyes, and she could also see his stomach fully unprotected. She shrieked as she delivered a violent slash, and a gasp reached her ears and blood her hands.

She turned to face her opponent, who was on his knees. She wanted him so desperately to ask for mercy, but she knew he wouldn't. So she simply did it. She arched her arm wielding her new sword - a French rapier Methos had given her - and took his head.

The quickening was brief. Bolts of blue lightning intertwined with a white mist of energy overwhelmed her. With it, a new feeling reached her head. An immortal was around. That feeling was... unique... and familiar. As she was shaken by the power, tears welled in her eyes when she realised they had run away to the end of the world for nothing.

It went off soon. Clarice rose exhausted and saw him. Logozz, smirking and leaning against a car. He now wore a neat Armani black long coat, a red shirt and a pair of black trousers. She blinked, not from the exhaustion but to wipe from her eyes the drops of sweat that had tripped down her forehead. Her arms refused to lift her blade, and she felt as if the Japanese's blood had made it unfathomably heavier.

Inadvertently, she felt a hideous pain in her chest. A dolorous force of some kind pushed her to the floor and she felt some ribs breaking as her back hit the floor. Logozz was by her, after delivering the swift blow that had knocked her. She cried mutely as her mind worked at full steam, unable to guess how she would survive this rendezvous.

He chopped at her neck but energies arising out of despair aided her to roll on the floor. She took distance, feeling her wounds healing and a little strength surfacing amid pain. She raised her sword and waited for the next lash. He stormed towards her, fiercely slamming against her. She felt the grip slipping from her hand as they clashed, and a major pain hit her throat.

She found herself struggling to breathe after Logozz had strongly connected his elbow with her throat. Her sword elsewhere but in her hand, she was yanked by the hair and her face was crushed against the floor. She almost choked with her own blood, which oozed out of her nose, mouth, and eyes.

A horrid premonition reached her head. Peculiar and unique like the one of Logozz, only harsher, and more dreadful. The tale of Methos reverberated in her head. The second outlander had arrived, probably to witness her execution by Logozz. Where in hell was Methos now that she needed him?

Her swollen eyes managed to make out Logozz going down on his kness and handling the weapon to another person. She exerted herself to see a slim shape receiving it and her heart almost broke when she saw who it was.

Methos was being handed the golden sword with a ceremonious nod. He eyed at Clarice, and she saw a face so different to the one she knew, that the anger and bitterness of betrayal subsided in favour of a fresh hopelessness. Methos raised the blade above his neck, prone to make a neat slice and sever her head.

A pair of harsh car lights dazzled them. Suddenly, Methos slashed, not at her, but at Logozz. The ancient hunter fell on his knees, holding a wound in his chest. Methos quickly held Logozz' head and made it twist till it snapped; then he picked Clarice up.

"We have to go!"

He dragged her towards the vehicle which had blinded her. Joe was in the passenger seat and Marc behind the wheel. She was shoved in the backseat, and Methos followed. She heard the whirr of the squealing tires speeding away as she faded into unconsciousness...

-----

She woke up some time later. She glanced around. Marc was driving, and he checked on her through the mirror. She saw relief in his eyes. Joe was staring through a window, humming the notes of some blues song. Next to her, Methos stared silently through the window.

"You have a lot to explain." She growled.

Methos barely nodded. He took a deep breath, and started to talk...

_(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Cassius Polonius appears in the Watcher files in the episode "Revelations 6:8" when Joe is looking for Caspian's true identity. Kenjiro Iwata and his watcher are not canon characters.)_


	7. Chapter 7

SEVEN – Death 

_Somewhere lost to memory. Circa 3000 BC._

Methos woke up with the beams of sunlight that had landed on his eyes. He stared left at the dark breasts of the woman he had slept with. Samir had introduced her to him a few months ago. She was not young, but neither was he. She had lost her man in a battle twenty years ago, and needed, like he needed, someone to calm down the desires of the flesh.

A sensation of dread hit him, concomitantly with the feeling buzzing within him. Immortals. Not any immortals, though. Methos jumped from the bed and put on his clothes. Then he picked up the broadsword Samir had given him and stormed out.He began to run restlessly towards Samir's house. The day had come. After three years, the outlanders had arrived to take the head of the Heretic. The sensation was so different, so horrid, compared to that of other immortals that he felt scared as never before.

He reached the residence and it was empty. He heard the clatter of swords not far, stemming form the end of the city.

There he found them. Samir was in the middle of a fight with a stranger he would later know as Logozz. The hunter, dressed in a black tunic, was coping well with Samir. The heretic feinted left yet struck right, aiming at his opponent's neck. Logozz ducked and impaled Samir against his sword.

"Samir!" Methos cried.

Logozz removed his sword from the heretic's body and turned evilly to him. "You shall not interfere!"

"Don't... hurt... him, Logozz." Samir gasped from the floor. "Take me... to her... let him... witness..."

Logozz hid his weapon and moved away. Methos went to help Samir, whose wound was healing. He helped him up and saw a face of relief in the heretic.

"What... happens?" Methos asked bewildered.

"Let's follow him, Methos."

Samir and his apprentice went slowly behind Logozz, who treaded with determination towards the desert. The heretic seemed relaxed and resigned to meet death.

"Why didn't he...?"

"It is not his duty to do so." Samir uttered simply.

"And whose...?"

"All the answers you will have, Methos. In due time."

A new buzz rang in their heads. It was very powerful and strange, and it gave Methos the creeps. A figure he made out in the distance. As they drew nearer, he realised it was a woman. Not any woman. Her hair was the whitest he had ever seen, her skin was the hue of sand, and her eyes were the colour of the clear sky.

"Here they are, my beloved Charon." Logozz mused. Methos observed how he approached and fused in a kiss with that gorgeous woman, a kiss which fuelled the feeling known as envy for the first time in him. The woman broke roughly, and motioned Samir towards her.

"Whatever happens now, Methos, don't interfere. You will have your answers soon... but I can tell you this now..."

Samir told something to Methos. The apprentice's face stretched into puzzlement and disappointment. Samir patted his shoulder before heading towards the woman. He grinned in acknowledgment at her – a gesture which was not returned - and knelt.

She extended left her arm. Logozz produced from inside a rustic bag a silver broadsword and carefully placed it in her palm, delivering a quick stroke with his thumb before he retrieved his hand. As the blade touched the sand, Charon balled her hand around the hilt so strongly Methos thought she would break it. She scowled darkly at Samir before the sword rose as lightning toward the skies and landed fatally on his neck.

Methos had wanted to look away. He had wanted to cry. But no emotion could outpass the curiosity he felt for seeing what would occur now.

She knelt to receive the power. Blue and black bolts of lightning struck her magnificently. Her body soared and a whirlwind of fire was formed around her. She screamed, first in agony, then in pain, finally in horror. Methos heard suffocated screams belonging to probably dead immortals, given voice by the power and knowledge unleashed, and he dared not think what she, as the epicentre of the quickening, would be hearing. It was over sooner than Methos could realise. She fell but remained on the sand, her face sunken amid her hands, her fists clenched. Faint weeps could be heard, her weeps.

"My beloved..." Logozz stammered. "What...?"

Charon suddenly arched over and let out a shriek of utmost defeat to the skies. Methos couldn't suppress a grin that contrasted with the tears that fell from his eyes. Logozz moved to her hesitantly and tried to help her to her feet. She pushed him away as an enraged beast.

"Many lifetimes ago, a tribe of nomads lived here. One of them was a shaman." Methos approached, speaking calmly and mercilessly enjoying the moment. "He blessed the ground where the city is and at least a thousand steps around it... including this spot we're in."

Logozz gaped in horror at this young immortal mocking them. He drew out his broadsword and shrieked, willing to send Methos to the afterlife.

"Logozz, don't." Charon spoke. Methos stood in amazement. Her voice was soft and clear; a beautiful melody. He wondered how such a lovely voice could belong to such a ruthless being. "I must pay the price... and in this young man shall I dwell."

Logozz restrained himself, not without effort. Charon stood up and started to walk into the desert, long enough to be far away from holy ground. In resignation, Logozz went after her. So did Methos, who believed he was beginning to grasp the notion of what would happen.

-----

Some time later, deep in the emptiness of desert and surely away from holy ground, she halted and went down on her knees. Logozz did likewise, while Methos observed. The lovers kissed briefly and she pushed him away.

"Methos!" Charon called. He approached, scrutinised by Logozz' bitter scowl. She handed him her sword, which, he noticed, presented a silver skull with wings in her hilt. He had expected to feel some strange power, but only found the weapon lighter than it seemed, if still heavy. "Are you willing to fulfil your destiny?"

The question struck Methos as ununderstandable. However, something fuelled him to reply. "I am."

"For centuries, some mortals have been given a second chance to live for eternity. That new opportunity is subject to their abiding by the only true rule that limits our existence. Holy ground must be respected, as a sing of gratefulness to the Higher One that allowed us immortality. Logozz and I have roamed the lands looking for those heretics that dared breaking it. It was my duty to be the Death of the Heretics... and now... it shall be yours."

"I...understand." Methos mumbled.

"Logozz will aide you like he aided me. He will continue to be the Hunter." Charon's voice went stiffer. "Now do it."

Methos put up the golden broadsword above his head. He stared at that woman for an instant, trying to figure out what would happen if he took her head. He closed his eyes as he struck forward, soon to find out.

He heard the dim noise of the head hitting the sand and dropped the sword. He opened his eyes and noticed Logozz glaring at him, motionless as a statue. Then the skies darkened and a strange flash of light arose from the dead body.

Methos felt squeezed by power. Red and green bolts hit him as a whirlwind of sand started to twist around him. A massive force of knowledge blasted his head as the quickening spun him around. He screamed and was deafened by his own voice. He found himself soaring, being struck by unfathomable powers. He lost notion of time, overcome by Charon's quickening.

After an immeasurable period, He fell hardly against the sand. His nose probably broke but it healed soon. He looked up, struggling to make his body work. A shadow covered the light. It was Logozz, standing before him with his sword in hand. Methos feared for a second only. Charon's knowledge let him know that he wouldn't do it. He painfully rose and stared respectfully at Logozz.

"What shall I do now?" He realised Logozz wasn't looking for an order, but for advice.

"Sleep, Logozz. Until another heretic dare roam the earth, you and I shall not meet again." Methos discovered his own voice had been changed, and charged with the seed of an element that would evolve within him in the following years: darkness.

Logozz nodded and turned. Methos watched him walk away despondently, with his weapon in hand. He didn't know where he would go, and he didn't care. At one moment, Logozz halted.

"You'd better fulfil your duty, Methos." The voice sounded bitter and hard. "Or a lifetime of pain won't be enough."

Methos was struck by the phrase and didn't notice when Logozz disappeared. It was done. It had become his eternal duty to eliminate all those who dared breaking the rules. He would find them and behead them, regardless of where they were or where they hid. Heresy would be unforgiven and punished. To all the heretics, he would mean Death.


	8. Chapter 8

EIGHT – Chattery. 

_Santa Fe, Rosario. Argentina._

_Four days later_.

In a calm warm morning, Clarice was silently sitting in the cafe of a hotel. She had finally had a smoke, and looked soothed by it. An ashtray contained four beige butts and half a cigarette, which was lit and waiting for her next kiss. She felt an immortal and noticed the slim shape of Methos passing by her and sitting in front of her. In his right hand, he held a small teapot. In the other, he had a small wooden cup filled with some sort of herb, out of which extended a small metallic thin tube. He poured some hot water on it and offered it to her.

"What is this?" she asked unkindly.

"_Mate._ It's popular stuff round here. Try it."

She reluctantly took the strange cup and sipped from the tube. It tasted like grass, but for some reason, she liked it.

"It's not bad." she grunted.

"I know. I wouldn't be drinking it otherwise. Any news?"

The question wasn't aimed at her, but at Marc and Joe, who appeared behind her. They sat down and passed from the _mate_ when offered.

"Our buddy has gone south. That has given us some time. However..." Joe halted. "They know you're immortal, Adam."

Methos didn't seem affected. "It was prone to happen. Anything else?"

"Laszlo Kovac is dead. They blame you... and there's a small group that wants retaliation." Marc added. "Kovac was a friend of mine..."

"I'm sorry, Marcus." Methos uttered. "But I didn't have anything to do with his death."

Clarice hardly believed him, and she was certain that neither did Marc.

"Marc and I should get some coffee... otherwise they might kick us out of here." Joe suggested. They rose and headed to the bar, which was far from the table. Clarice and Methos remained in a tense silence.

"He won't stop, will he?" she finally broke.

"Not till he sees us dead."

"You still have a way out." she hissed.

"I won't do it."

"Why not?" Methos poured some water and sipped from the _mate_.

"You still feel Greg within you?" Methos asked rethorically. "I still feel Samir... and Charon... and every single head I've taken, and those taken by them, in the last five thousand years." Methos notched down his voice. "Especially the ones whose lives I could have spared... I don't want to feel you within me as well."

Marc and Joe returned and Methos put on his usual face.

"What do we do now?" she queried.

"Knowing Logozz, he will take Charon's burden... my burden as his. And I can't let that happen."

"Knowing him? Were there other heretics you two hunted?"

"After Samir, there were some cases. One was in Pompeii, another in Jerusalem, around the time of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. And of course, we had Jacob Kell."

"Who?"

"Jacob Kell was a Highlander." Joe explained, embittered for some reason. "He was a friend of Connor MacLeod."

"Another MacLeod?"

"You need a lesson of history, Clarice." Joe grunted. "Connor MacLeod was the second MacLeod known to become immortal. He defeated the Kurgan – said to be the greatest warrior of all time - in what he believed to be the Gathering in 1986. Anyway, Kell held big grudges against Connor, so he made his life a living hell for a couple of centuries till Connor hid in holy ground to sleep along with other immortals."

"So?"

"Kell entered holy ground, beheaded all the immortals and release Connor. The bottom line is: Connor surrendered his head to Duncan so that Duncan could defeat Kell."

"Why you can't let Logozz kill her?" Marc intervened.

"Only few special immortals can contain the quickening of an heretic. I am one of them, otherwise Samir and Charon wouldn't have chosen me. Logozz isn't..."

"And what if Logozz takes her head?" Joe hissed.

"The consequences..." Methos mused and silenced. He sipped more _mate_ as the other awaited for the rest of the phrase... which never came.

"We can't stay here." Marc whispered.

"We must leave." Methos spoke again. "And I know the exact place."

-----

_New York City. _

_A day later_.

Methos turned the key of his loft and opened the door. He showed her in and locked the door. He started to remove some sheets from the furniture as she looked around.

"You're not making a pass at me, are you? Why did you leave Joe and Marc in Argentina? And why did we come here?"

Methos smiled. "No, I'm not making a pass at you. I left Marc and Joe there because I thought they would be safe. However, knowing them as I do, they might be on their way here. We came here because..."

He moved towards a door not far from there. He inserted a key in it and the door opened. Clarice followed him and found a room which contained nothing but wardrobes.

"What's this?"

"My basement." Methos commented as he unlocked one of the wardrobes. He opened the door and she stared mesmerized. There was an array of antiques that stunned her. Ancient items, swords of all kinds, strange clothes and other stuff which was amazing.

He took a ring from inside. "It belonged to Alexandra Johnson, Connor MacLeod's last wife. I personally took it from her dead body." He left it there and took a necklace made of human teeth. "Samir wore it the day he died."

"Wow." she mumbled. "And how's this gonna help us?"

"It won't. But this will."

Methos returned the necklace and produced a large broadsword. Its blade shone magnificently despite the dust. Its hilt was pure silver, and a skull with two wings was sculpted in it. She gaped in bafflement.

"What will you do with it?" she stammered.

"Nothing. You will."

_(AUTHOR's NOTE: "Mate" is a popular drink in Argentina, Uruguay and other countries of the region.)_


	9. Chapter 9

**NINE- Fate.**

_New York City. _

_Days later._

The door was kicked down. Logozz walked in, neatly dressed in Armani, and wielding his golden sword. He eyed around carefully. Methos could be around. If he could conceal his special gift – Charon's blessing – then he might also conceal the buzzing as well. But the Heretic didn't seem to be around, or he would have felt her.

He traipsed heavily, looking for them. Above the large comfortable structure modernity called _sofa_, Logozz found a sheet of paper, on which there was an array of drawings. Logozz grinned cynically. Only one person could have the knowledge of such an old language. He took it and examined it for a second before squeezing it into a ball as he stormed out of the place...

-----

In 2001, terrorists hijacked two airplanes and made them crash against the Twin Towers. The remnants were demolished and plans for new towers were set. There is a clean spot where the towers once were.

At the World Trade Center, Logozz read the memorial erected there and wished he had been around to see such a terrible destruction unleash. He looked around, his mind having received the faintest trace of the presence of an immortal. A particularly special immortal.

He moved into the clean spot where the towers had been. A shape he made out, calmly standing, watching in his direction. Logozz plopped in the soil towards it. A grin posed on his face when he realised it was Methos. Had he regained composure?

"Where's the Heretic?" he demanded as he stopped, a few steps far from him.

Methos seemed to be feeling the breeze on his face, for he took a while to reply. He looked innocently at Logozz, and from out of the blue, a scowl ruled in his eyes.

"Faraway... so close... does it make a difference?" he said nonchalantly.

"It might make a difference for you."

Methos took off his coat and wielded his trusty broadsword. Logozz smirked as he made his sword spin in his hand.

"I don't know where she is. But as I said..." Methos bent his knees as he held his weapon with both hands, the blade of which rising towards the dark sky. "... it doesn't make a difference. Let's settle this once and for all. You've wanted it for a long time..."

Logozz shrieked as he lashed towards Methos. He delivered a fierce whip on Methos' blade which was contained nicely. Deafening clashes followed as both immortals exchanged blows.

Methos feinted left, yet struck right. Logozz opposed his blade and their swords hooked in a struggle that seemed eternal. Their eyes sparked with rage and anger. One for the betrayal and the loss of the love; the other for much simpler reasons: he would need them.

Logozz unravelled left and kicked Methos' side. The other staggered away as he stormed forward to finish him. Logozz shrieked as his arm arched up magnificently above his head and began its downturn towards Methos' head. A whine was heard and blood fell. Then he felt a punch in his stomach, fiercely sending him away. He stood his ground and stared at his opponent.

A deep slice bleed from the right side of Methos' hairline. Logozz bore a grin which seemed to grow broader as the blood trickled abundantly down Methos' face, colouring his closed eyes, nose and mouth. Methos wasn't looking at him, he merely stood with his arms and weapon down; silently, inertly, hardly breathing.

"Have you decided to let yourself die?" Logozz grunted. Methos didn't seem to hear. "Have you accepted your inevitable fate, Methos?"

Methos opened his eyes. Logozz ceased laughter and stared in surprise. He saw a face he had not seen in a long time, a face which made his fingers quiver with no apparent reason.

"Yes, Logozz. I have."

The words came out cavernously, charged with darkness and rage. The Death passed his hand over the wound and then stared at it. He eyed at his opponent and licked his fingers. He grinned and a minute drop of blood slipped down his lower lip. He put up the sword. Logozz breathed deeply.

Then Methos struck. He moved forward with an astounding speed. Logozz stepped forward, hoping to stab Methos straight in the chest. But the tip of his blade landed in the cold air. He felt the air being cut from his left and turned to block. The blunt part of Methos' blade hit him in the face and went away.

Logozz found himself apparently alone and unattacked. He put his hand over his mouth, and blood and a teeth he observed. He felt an appalling sensation that he had not felt in millennia: fear.

"Is this what you wanted, Logozz?"

Methos sounded almost in a whisper, yet deafeningly loud. Logozz turned and found him with his sword up, ready to strike again. The Hunter raised his blade and treaded forward, at first slowly, and gradually increased his speed to end up colliding against Methos.

Methos parried the blow and started to push Logozz' blade towards his left. When his rival's sword was past his shoulder, he stopped struggling as he ducked, making a full twist, and jabbed fiercely Logozz' stomach.

Logozz fell on his knees, uttering a deadly gasp of defeat, and had to use his arms not to fall hardly against the floor. He tried to cradle away, but his pathetic attempt was overcame by the pain.

"Will you let Clarice alone, Logozz?" Methos asked. Logozz tried to eye at him, but he only found his own reflection in the blade that stood by him, held by his vanquisher. He recognised his golden friend and smirked.

"I won't! Not ever!"

Those were his last words. Methos raised the golden sword to the heavens and in the same moment that thunder announced the coming rain, he let it plummet itself against Logozz' neck.

Methos closed his eyes. It was done. Logozz had been beheaded. He felt the scent of dread and a new surge of darkness surrounding him. As the quickening began to unleash, he thought of Clarice and if she had done as told.

----

_New York City. A day ago._

"A sword won't make a difference, Methos." Clarice suggested.

"This sword will." Methos said simply as he motioned her to leave the room with him.

"I don't see how. Logozz defeated me very easily. I stand no chance against him, neither wielding this sword, nor mine, not even the freaking Excalibur!"

"It's not to protect yourself from Logozz." Methos suddenly sounded mournful, as if he were grieving someone. "It's to protect yourself from me."

"You?"

"Logozz will never stop, and only a handful of us might have a shot against him. For that reason, I must fight him."

"I don't understand." Clarice was beginning to worry.

"You know why governments have separation of powers?" At Clarice's negative, he continued. "To prevent corruption. The same happens with Logozz and I: if one of us had the power of the other, then the power might end up corrupting him."

"So you're saying that you..." Clarice's voice cracked.

"I have no choice. Take this sword with you and leave now." He put a hand in his inner pocket and drew out a pack of highly-denominated euros. "Fetch a plane. Anywhere. Just don't let me know. If you ever see me again, run, run like you've never run before."

"What if I don't?"

"Then you'll die."

-----

_Alma-Ata. Kazakhstan. _

Strolling through flocks of working people, Clarice Minon didn't halt when she sensed the quickening unleash elsewhere. She carried on walking casually.

It had been done. Methos had embraced his fate as the Death of the Heretics to save her. And she would never be able to thank him. For facing him would mean her end. She turned into a less-crowded street and stopped at the traffic lights.

She thought of Marc. Would he know how things had evolved? Where would he be know? The lights turned green and she started moving again, unaware that her watcher was barely a few steps behind him, following her in disguise as he had done for several years.

Clarice Minon kept on walking down the street. She was the Heretic, bearer of a curse she had received inadvertently, forever damned to escape the Death and the Executioner, or face him in a battle in which consequences won't mean a thing. And it would never be over... until her head fell.

_**C'EST FINIT!**_


End file.
